


A Singular Account

by AngelQueen



Category: Enola Holmes Series - Nancy Springer, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Gen, POV First Person, Reichenbach Angst, Reichenbach Feels, The Final Problem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-08 03:10:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18885979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AngelQueen/pseuds/AngelQueen
Summary: Here being a further account concerning Mr. Sherlock Holmes' final confrontation with Professor James Moriarty.





	A Singular Account

**Author's Note:**

  * For [language_escapes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/language_escapes/gifts).



I race across the continent, uncaring of those who cluck when they see a young woman traveling alone and unchaperoned. I have never cared for so-called proprieties, and cares even less now when time is slipping through my fingers with every delay.

* * *

Mycroft had told me not to come, had told me many times before not to get involved in Sherlock’s war with the notorious criminal Professor Moriarty. I had taken that advice, particularly when Sherlock added his own voice to our brother’s. I had my own struggles to contend with – my schooling, my own detective work. Moriarty was Sherlock’s project.

Until suddenly it wasn’t. Apparently, the good professor believed the best way to deter Sherlock was to attack someone he cared for. Attacking Mycroft would bring the British Government down upon his head – perhaps even draw the attention of Her Majesty – and the Watsons were kept under close watch by associates of Sherlock. That left me.

It had been a surprisingly sloppy attack, coming upon me just as I was returning to my rooms at the Professional Women’s Club. I had long accustomed myself to be aware of my surroundings, and had detected my pursuer. I had turned, ready to defend myself (my trusty knife ever at the ready), and thus was ready to dodge when a billy club came down toward my head.

The struggle was a brief one, I managing to open a deep gash on my assailant’s arm. The man had howled a string of curses over his injury, and I caught one line in particular, “Damned P’fessor’s money ain’t w’rth this!”

I knew there were times when I vexed the professors of Oxford, but I did not think it so bad that they would send a cutthroat after me. That left only one other possibility, and I would be remiss if I did not inform Sherlock. 

When I did, the expression that crossed her brother’s face was one I had never seen before. Nor did I particularly wish to see it again.

In the weeks that followed, I went about my normal business, refusing to allow Moriarty to intimidate me into altering my life in any way. I did keep abreast of my surroundings, though. That was when I discovered that both of my brothers were having me followed, Mycroft having sent men that served Her Majesty’s government in a capacity that I did not wish to know the details of, and Sherlock having decided to send his Irregulars to dog my every move. Again.

I might have objected voraciously, but for seeing the logic of it. While I detested any implication that I could not take care of herself (had I not done so for nearly a year, leading both of my brothers on a wild chase all over London?), my minders could also be on the lookout for other associates of Moriarty, people who could be linked back to him. So, I permitted them to watch me, and did not deliberately slip from their gaze.

(Alright, there was that one time, but I was meeting with an informant who would have strenuously objected to being seen with me by anyone! There really was no need for Sherlock to lecture me on being careless with my safety!)

The whole charade was, in the end, unneeded, because Moriarty had had enough of toying with Sherlock, every bit as much as Sherlock had had enough when he saw me with bruised cheeks and a cut on my arm. I ended up watching from the side as my brother was suddenly besieged by people trying to kill him. I watched as he took to slipping through the various cracks, holes, and empty spaces that hid in the shadows of the city (many of which I myself knew and made use of). Every offer I made to help was insistently rebuffed. 

* * *

_“This is not your concern, Enola,” Sherlock said, his tone unyielding. “Stay out of it.”_

_“He is right,” Mycroft added. “This will be over soon enough and your normal routines can resume.”_

_“But I can help, Sherlock!” I protested. “I’ve already heard –”_

_“Let it be, little sister,” Sherlock cut her off, leaving me no room for further protest. “Just this once – let it be.”_

* * *

I’d tried to ‘leave it be’, I truly had. And when Moriarty’s empire began to crumble, piece by piece, it appeared that all might be well.

Until _that_ night.

* * *

Scotland Yard was a riot of movement and energy. Criminals of all classes were being dragged through the corridors, some cursing colorfully in the rough voices of the men of the street while others protested in outraged, educated tones and demanded that they be set free lest the wrath of their powerful kin be brought down upon them. With all of this going on, no one noticed one seemingly old woman standing in a corner or sitting on a bench, watching from beneath a black veil. 

“… got all but the ringleader, sir –”

“Professor, Jenkins,” replied Inspector Lestrade, “Professor Moriarty. Use his proper name and title, or else his representatives will use it as yet another excuse to delay the proceedings.”

“Yes sir,” said Jenkins. He then continued, “We got all of ‘em but Professor Moriarty. We’ve got men searching his offices, his home, and his usual haunts, the ones Mr. Holmes provided for us, but there’s no sign of him.”

“Damn,” cursed Lestrade. Then he sighed as they continued onward to their destination. “I’ll send a wire to Holmes, then. He’ll need to be warned –”

If anyone else had walked down that corridor then, they would have seen it completely deserted. No inspectors, no rank-in-file policemen, and no old women with their faces obscured by a veil.

* * *

Mycroft knew of Moriarty’s escape even before I reached him, and had already sent wires to Sherlock to inform him, but that wasn’t enough. The knot in my stomach would not loosen.

No, I must see to this herself. Moriarty’s web might be destroyed, but who was to say that all of his minions had been dispatched? I knew better than to think everything had been swept clean so easily. I told my brother as much.

Mycroft eyed her warily. “I have every faith in your abilities, Enola,” he said, “but what can you hope to do that Sherlock cannot against a man who is likely in a desperate, deadly rage?”

I stared at him, before first pulling out the knife that had been through so much with me… and then the small pocket pistol that had been a recent gift from Mycroft himself. 

He returned her gaze, one eyebrow rising. “You would kill a man, little sister?”

It was a fair question. I had injured men before, had defended myself from harm on more than one occasion. But never before had I sought to deliberately end another living being’s life. Part of me quailed at the very thought, but I kept my face hard and set.

“If necessary to defend my family,” I said, slowly returning the weapons to their hiding places, “in a heartbeat.”

* * *

There is a cable waiting for me when I at last arrive in Meiringen, sent from Mycroft to furnish me with the details of Sherlock and Dr. Watson’s lodgings at the Englischer Hof, and also a notification of his having procured lodgings for me there as well. It is mid-afternoon, and I doubt my brother and his friend will be at the little inn, but I determine that it is the best place to begin the last legs of my search. 

Upon arriving at the Englischer Hof, I find the innkeeper easily enough. Peter Steiler (the Elder, mind you – apparently he has a son also called Peter) is a middle-aged man with a kind face and intelligent eyes, though I quickly notice that he seems troubled. I do not waste time and after introducing myself, I explains the purpose of my visit – to find Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.

The moment the words leave my mouth, his expression grows even more unsettled. “Indeed, they arrived here just yesterday,” he confirms in excellent English. “This morning, they asked me about any local sites of interest. I suggested they walk the hills to Rosenlaui, and they take a small detour on the way to see the Reichenbach Falls.”

I consider this. The trail I’ve followed in my search for Sherlock has been one of many scenic sites, hardly that of a man who has a particular destination in mind. I am about to ask for further details – perhaps even to ask if I might procure a horse so as to better catch them up – when he continues.

“It was the strangest thing, though, Miss. Dr. Watson returned here not thirty minutes ago, with a message about a sick Englishwoman who needed a doctor, and written on paper with the hotel mark, no less! We had had another Englishman stop here earlier in the day – a tall, willowy fell. He is the only person who has come in, other than yourself now. I –”

My heart enters my throat and I don’t bother waiting any longer before hurrying out the door. I no longer care for the horse, as it will only cause her further delay. 

The paths are clearly marked – a sign that Meiringen is a place accustomed to tourists – and I hurry along my way. I had thankfully changed into sensible footwear before leaving the train, and so I am not hampered by shoes not intended for walking on rugged ground. I am, however, no longer accustomed to rolling hills as I had been before I took up residence in London, and so become winded soon enough, which slows me down more. Nonetheless, I push on. I will not, cannot stop now. Not when my brother’s life remains in mortal danger.

I hears the falls long before I come upon their location. There is a sign that points out the proper way, and I finds myself climbing up the hill as the sounds of roaring water fill my ears even more. It is a short path, and I soon come upon a familiar figure.

“Dr. Watson!” I shout, raising my voice in the effort to be heard above the falls, but my cry only rolls up the sheer cliff wall and right back down to me. I hurry closer, continuing to call. 

Perhaps he never hears me, but he eventually notices my movement, and turns to fully face me. Recognition comes across the man’s familiar features, followed by another emotion. He looks… stricken.

Even as… something… inside of me twists and shudders, I look around franticly, my hand going to my pocket where my pistol resides. “Where are they?” I shout. “Where is Sherlock?”

He seems to understand me, but his eyes swivel first toward the cliff wall, and then to the drop off beside us. I am no dunce, no fool, and I comprehend him in the blink of an eye.

I do not sink to my knees from the realization, though every fiber of my being screams in denial. I cannot, will not believe…

I am too late. There is the truth of it.

I am too late. The words pulse through my brain, heavy as the beat of a drum. 

My brother is dead. My Sherlock, the brother who came to see me as I truly was long before anyone else. The brother who once pursued me to put me in the cage (not that he saw it as that), but then merely out of concern for my well-being. The brother who, in not so many words, declared that he was _proud_ of me.

My brother, this most wonderful of brothers, _is dead_.

I have never been given to hysterical, emotional displays, but on that occasion, I felt no shame in my grief. I wept.

* * *

_Editor’s Note: The above document was found among the papers of Dr. John Watson by his heirs, and kept in private hands for nearly a century after his death before permitting it to be examined by scholars. The hand that wrote it was clearly not that of Dr. Watson, the analyst stating that the handwriting was that of a woman._

_The contents, where the writer claims the position of that of sister to Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes, cast a further light on the events leading up to Sherlock Holmes’ final confrontation with Professor James Moriarty, albeit in an abridged format._

_While most might scoff at such a person, there are indeed records of a daughter born to Sherrinford Holmes, Esq. and his wife, Eudoria Vernet Holmes – Enola Eudoria Hadassah Holmes – some twenty years after the birth of the younger of their two sons, Sherlock Holmes. There is scant record of her for the years of her childhood until in 1890, when she appeared on the auditing rolls of Oxford at the age of sixteen. Given such a large passing of time, extensive research went into determining that the two Enola Holmes’ were, in actuality, the same person, despite the uniqueness of the name._

_After her enrollment at Oxford, Enola Holmes’ presence became much more substantial, as she made a name for herself as a ‘finder of what is lost’. Though her name never became a household word as her brother’s did (indeed, she was never once mentioned in Dr. Watson’s tales, in contrast to Mycroft who makes the occasional appearance), she did still become fairly well-known among the people of London._

_1891, of course, was the year of the death of Professor James Moriarty and, supposedly, Sherlock Holmes. While Dr. Watson’s accounts eventually bear out that Mycroft Holmes knew that his brother’s death had been subterfuge, it was not known for many years what, if any, role Enola herself might have played._

_If, as has been conjectured, this above account was written by Enola herself, then it very well appears that Enola, at least in the time of writing this, did not know of her brother’s survival. The emotion the words evoke speak of genuine grief, not of someone playing a part._

_Again, it can only be speculated how these pages ended up in the hands of Dr. Watson. Perhaps Enola wrote them as a way of processing her grief after the apparent loss of her brother, and then later gave them to the doctor for safe-keeping, or perhaps even to incorporate them into his own writings at some point._

_In any case, Enola’s later life is just as steeped in mystery as that of both of her brothers. Like them, we do not know when she died. Like them, there has never been a death announcement of any Enola Holmes listed in_ The Times.


End file.
